A Very Sherlocky Christmas
by TYRider
Summary: Christmas drabbles at 221B.
1. Chapter 1

**I wrote this for my friend, Sherley Holmes, last year and decided to post it now that the Christmas season has arrived once again! Enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated.**

John walked down Baker Street, arms full from his trip to Tesco. He looked around, admiring the festive displays of holiday cheer; a tree in a window here, twinkling lights there, and wreaths of green on every door. Well, almost every door.

Arriving at 221, John sighed at the contrast. 221 was dark and cheerless. Mrs. Hudson had gone to spend the season with her sister, abandoning the building to the boys' care.

John, knowing Sherlock didn't care for the holiday itself or the unnecessary displays of sentiment, had resigned himself to skipping the day altogether. But, sentiment and shops alike preyed on the softhearted and John had succumb, buying four small gifts. Their shining paper tucked in among the groceries.

Unlocking the door, John stepped inside. He shrugged out of his coat and stamped the built-up snow from his shoes. Christmas Eve seemed bleak in 221. Sighing again, John climbed up the stairs to 221b.

"Sherlock," he called, stepping into the darkened interior of the flat. "I got the shopping." John was forced to make his way through the flat based mainly on memory. He made it to the kitchen. "Would it kill you to help me?" he grumbled. "Or at least turn on the lights," he suggested as he narrowly missed hitting his knee on a waist-high stack of books.

John had just dumped the bags on the counter when Sherlock finally responded. "Of course, John," he said, flicking the light switch.

John blinked in at the sudden overabundance of light. Finally, recovering, John gazed about the transformed flat in dumbstruck wonder. "You did this?" he asked.

Sherlock gave one curt nod, face pensive and guarded. "You are pleased with it?" he asked cautiously.

John made another turn about the flat, stepping into the center of the living room. There were lights on the mantel and around the windows, tinsel scattered everywhere, and the cow skull had a pair of antlers on top of its usual headphones. But that wasn't all. No, what had John stunned into silence was the beautiful evergreen in the corner.

The tree was a real sight. Caution tape was wound among the boughs and instead of normal ornaments there was a large assortment of odds and ends. Among which, John was sure he spotted a human ear. Other baubles included a collection of badges—mainly belonging to Lestrade, all of the shinier pieces of equipment from John's medical kit; tweezers, clamps, a stethoscope, and needles strung on colorful ribbon.

John blinked at the collection of gingerbread men ornaments. Or, more accurately, the gingerbread men shaped chalk outlines and blood pools. He admired Sherlock's creative interpretation of appropriate use of icing and cookies. Looking closer, John noticed a garland of spent shell casings strung together and, "Is that my gun?" John asked incredulously, staring at his gun strung up on the tree like an ornament.

"It was shiny," Sherlock shrugged by way of explanation. "You do like it, don't you?"

John sent one more curious look up to the tree's macabrely grinning topper, before meeting his friend's secretly anxious gaze. "I love it." Both men smiled.

"Merry Christmas, John."

"Thank you. Merry Christmas, Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock!" John growled, tone bordering on homicidal.

Sherlock smirked to himself, gray-blue eyes dancing. Sprawled gracelessly over his chair like a cat, wearing his favorite pajamas and the blue dressing gown Mrs. Hudson had given him a few years back.

The sounds of John angrily stomping around his room filtered down to Sherlock. The consulting detective closed his eyes, allowing his grin to grow. In his mind, he could picture John's movements, predict them. About now, the sandy-haired man was rummaging through his dresser drawers, mumbling curses under his breath, the color rising in his cheeks along with his blood pressure.

It wasn't often that Sherlock stooped to pranking. Well, Mycroft didn't count. Pranking Mycroft was a public service, one of the few duties that Sherlock took seriously. Someone had to keep the brolly-brandishing, self-worshiping piece of Machiavellian, bakery-emptying bureaucracy from swelling to the point of throwing off gravitational pull of the universe. Or something like that. However that worked. Sherlock waved a hand to chase away the thoughts. The universe was not of his concern, he deleted most of that data ages ago, and regardless of what John nattered on about, it was not necessary 99.7% of the time.

Pranking John was fun. Extremely dangerous at times, but fun. Sherlock rubbed his jaw at the memory of the last time he had pranked John. It had been worth it though, dying the blond's hair pink _for science._

Upstairs it was quiet. Sitting up a little straighter, Sherlock strained to hear his friend. John's bedroom door slammed, rattling the whole flat. John began stomping down the stairs, cursing not just under his breath but loudly. Mrs. Hudson would be tutting if she could hear.

"Sherlock!" John raged, appearing in the room wearing his pajama bottoms and a ridiculous Christmas sweater covered in an absurd amount of superfluous sparkles and a grinning, misshapen Santa.

"John," Sherlock drawled lazily, trying not to grin. "We're out of milk."

"Sherlock," came John's rumbled response.

"Yes, John, that is my name."

"I'm going to kill you." There was a deadly edge in the ex-soldier's voice.

"Oh, good, you _can_ say more than just my name. Lovely. We're still out of milk."

"Sherlock, where are all of my clothes?" John asked with forced calm, hands clinching, one grasping another Christmas sweater, this one sporting a putrid shade of orange and a neon blue reindeer.

"Your clothes?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"My clothes. Where are they?" John asked.

"Oh, I knew how much you liked jumpers, John. Aren't you always pestering me to be more thoughtful?"

"Thoughtful is not stealing all of my clothes and replacing them with these bloody awful Christmas jumpers, Sherlock, and you know it."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked carelessly.

John rolled his eyes. "Where did you even get this many jumpers? Every drawer, every hanger in my closet you filled with these obscene things."

John's anger was subsiding a little, more curious than murderous. That was good.

"Let's just say Mycroft's going to be… _surprised_ later today."


End file.
